


To Her Glory

by ObsessedWithMerlin



Series: Traditional Britannia [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Noble Houses, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Traditions, magical lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24816187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessedWithMerlin/pseuds/ObsessedWithMerlin
Summary: In 1755, Polina Malfoy publishes "Traditional Britannia, A Return to Her Glory." A combination of traditional values and new customs meant to preserve blood lines, protect the magical word and promote the unity of Houses.In 1995, Hermione Granger finds a copy of the forbidden book in the library of 12 Grimmauld Place.Entranced by the unique rituals the book touches on, Hermione asks Harry to help her preform one, not truly understanding why the act was reserved for bonded couples. . . until they tried it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Series: Traditional Britannia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795000
Comments: 13
Kudos: 229





	To Her Glory

**Author's Note:**

> AU One-shots of the Wizarding World if Purebloods cared about more than pointy sticks and incest.

Hermione had found the book that summer, when the Weasleys were too busy attempting to eavesdrop on the Order meetings and she had been reminding herself all the reasons she couldn’t answer Harry’s last letter.  


Traditional Britannia, A Return to Her Glory.  


The title had grabbed her attention first. She had only ever read two books that referred to the Wizarding World as Britannia, and both were heavily redacted. Madame Pince had said something about radical anti-muggle theories and blood purity. Hermione appreciated the sentiment but at the same time did not like the destruction of any book. Any society ignorant of its own history deserves the doom that follows.  


The second thing that she noticed was the name of the author. Polina Malfoy.  


Which, at the time, she had thought made perfect sense. If she was going to find a book on blood purity and the purging of all muggles it was going to be written by a Malfoy. But then she had opened the book.  


Instead of hatred and calls for violence, she had found rituals to deepen the connection of the body to one’s magic. Stranger yet, it was filled with courting norms and the proper way to format a betrothal contract- which, yes, was archaic, until she actually started to understand them.  


Several chapters offered insight into the histories surrounding prominent houses, including the House of Potter. Apparently Harry’s family was once considered a Most Noble House and his House was hyphenated. Potter-Sayre was mentioned to be one of the most powerful families of the time. It was incredible, and all Hermione could think about was how she hadn’t read of any of this.  


One chapter in particular had caught her interest. Fascination and obsession were more accurate terms.  


It was an exchange, of a sorts. The surrendering of one’s magic to another, and having that gift mirrored in return. According to Polina Malfoy, this ritual promoted the personal knowledge of one’s magic, deepened the bonds of the two participants, soothed magical ails, and left one feeling rejuvenated.  


All of this led up to the moment Hermione was about to knock on the door of the room Harry and Ron were sharing, nearly an hour before they were meant to get up. Before she could knock though, she heard someone cry out.  


She ran into the room, wand ready for whatever fight she might find, only to have the cry come again from Harry, eyes shut tight and covers thrown off. She put her wand back in its holster and walked over to wake him up.  


When she was standing over him, she could see he was drenched in sweat and tossing in his sleep. Her heart hurt for him.  


“Harry, Harry,” Hermione whispered, shaking his shoulder. “Harry, wake up!”  


He woke with a start, reaching for his wand, but she grabbed his hand instead. His eyes were unfocused, but he recognized her without his glasses easily enough. “Hermione?”  


“Here,” She said. “Let me grab your glasses.”  


He nodded, but didn’t say anything. Even after he put them on, his eyes didn’t lose that far away look.  


“Harry,” Hermione said slowly, sitting carefully on the bed. “What’s wrong?”  


“Just a dream,” Harry mumbled, pushing his glasses up so he could rub his eyes.  


“Like your dream last year? Like the graveyard.”  


“No,” Harry said, eyes still fixed on the opposite wall. “No, this is different.”  


Concerned, Hermione lifted her hand to rest on his shoulder, but he jerked away. “I said I’m fine!”  


Across the room, Ron snorted loudly in his sleep, unconsciously rolling over to get away from the sound.  


Harry and Hermione both watched him settle back down.  


“Come on,” Hermione said. “I’ll put on some tea.”  


She walked out first, giving him a few minutes to collect himself.  


Downstairs Mrs Weasley was already fast at work, beginning to set everything up for the hoard of hungry mouths that would soon descend upon the kitchen.  


“Herminone, dear,” Mrs Weasley called. “Good Morning. Would you mind too terribly grabbing that for me?”  


Hermione smiled, grabbing the sausage links Molly was pointing to and walking them over to her.  


“Thanks so much, love.”  


Hermione smiled in response, but the mother of seven had already moved back to her cooking. She slowly filled the tea pot as Mrs Weasley asked about her sleep. They traded small talk as Hermione prepared the tea. Glad for the larger than necessary kitchen, Hermione walked over and set the tea pot above the open fire to heat, so as not to disturb Molly.  


“Harry, dear!” Mrs Weasley’s cry alerted her to Harry’s arrival.  


“Good Morning, Mrs Weasley,” Harry said, still half asleep.  


“What are you doing up so early?” she asked. “Usually we have to drag you up!”  


Hermione jumped in before Harry was forced to think back to whatever dream had been disturbing him.  


“I promised him some tea last night, Mrs Weasley.”  


“Well, if tea was the key to getting teenage boys up, I wish I had known that ten years ago. It would have saved me years of trouble.”  


“It was more Hermione,” Harry said. “I’ve missed talking with friends this summer.”  


That comment fell flat, and Hermione knew the same guilt she was feeling was probably a hundred times worse in Molly. Hermione could at least blame her and Dumbledore, Molly made the decision to force Harry into solitude.  


“Harry, dear,” Mrs Weasley started, but was interrupted by the tea pot whistling at the most opportune time.  


“Tea’s ready!” Hermione cried cheerfully. “I have a table set up in the library, Harry. If that’s all right?”  


“Yes, fine,” Harry said shortly, turning and walking from the room.  


“It will be alright, dear,” Molly said as Hermione gathered all the things for the tea tray. “He’ll come around.”  


“We hurt him, Mrs Weasley,” Hermione said, though she took no pleasure in the slight flinch it caused in the older woman. She didn’t wait for a response, grabbing the tray, she headed upstairs.  


“Harry,” she called, knocking on the open library door to alert him of her presence. It didn’t make a difference.  


He kept his back to her, staring vacantly at a wall of books. She put her tray down on the end table, making a little noise, hoping to get his attention.  


“Harry?”  


He hummed in response, looking over at her, but not turning. Hermione poured him a cup, placing it pointedly next to the chair next to her. Harry watched it for a moment, long enough for Hermione to start to think he wasn’t going to take it, before he moved carefully over and sank into the tall-backed chair.  


“Thanks for the tea,” Harry said, grabbing his cup.  


They were quiet for a few minutes, letting their tea cool slightly.  


“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked after a while.  


He tensed. “There’s nothing to talk about.”  


“Harry,” she began, but was cut off.  


“Why were you in our room this morning? I’m not loud, I know I’m not. The Dursley’s don’t like to be disturbed.”  


“You didn’t disturb me,” Hermione said before she could think better of it.  


He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and then shrugged.  


Apparently that was the end of it.  


In order to avoid another long silence, Hermione answered his question. “I came to ask for a favor, actually.”  


“A favor,” Harry said dryly. “At five in the morning.”  


“Yes,” Hermione said. “Before everyone was awake.”  


Harry’s brow furrowed. “What did you need that you couldn’t ask in front of everyone?”  


“There’s a ritual, that I wanted to try. It doesn’t seem very hard, but it needs two people.” Hermione considered for a moment. “Only two people,” she stressed slightly.  


“A ritual?” Harry asked. “Not a spell?”  


“No, I don’t think so,” Hermione said. “If anything, I believe it’s closer to wandless magic.”  


“Wandless Magic? You’re out of your mind, Hermione.”  


“Please, Harry. It won’t hurt to try. If we can’t do it, then that’s that. I don’t even know if it’s real or not.”  


He set his now empty cup down on its saucer and leaned forward. “Where did you even hear of it?”  


“I read it in a book,” Hermione replied smartly.  


Harry said something under his breath that Hermione was more apt to ignore than credit with a response.  


She placed her cup down as well, not quite finished, but she was looking forward to this too much to wait any longer.  


“So what does this ritual do?” Harry asked, still obviously skeptical.  


“It’s an exchange of magic.”  


“A what?!”  


“Maybe that was the wrong way to describe it,” Hermione thought out loud, rubbing her forehead. “It’s like a hand shake,” she decided on.  


Harry looked at her suspiciously. “How did ‘exchange of magic’ become ‘handshake?’”  


Hermione stood up, pulling Harry to his feet as well.  


“It’s like this,” Hermione said. “I put out my hand,” she did. “And you put out yours.”  


Harry didn’t. That was, until she glared at him.  


“And then we shake. Not exactly an exchange because the whole time our arms are still attached to our bodies.”  


Hermione shook his hand to demonstrate.  


“But at the same time, I gave you my hand, and you gave me yours, even if just for a second.”  


“You want to do that with our magic?” Harry asked, incredulously. “How do you figure that?”  


“Well, the book was quite simple with this part really,” she said. “You stand here.”  


Harry let her move him away from the sitting area, back into the open space near the entryway, but slightly hidden from view by one of the longer shelves.  


“And I-” she started to kneel, but when Harry guessed her intention, he tried to stop her.  


“Hermione, I’m not so sure about this,” Harry said as she got to her knees in front of him.  


“Relax, Harry. It’s just magic.”  


He chuckled awkwardly, “Not the magic bit I’m worried about.”  


“Please,” she scoffed. “Kneeling is just an action. You don’t think I’m submitting my free will to the patriarchy, do you?” She arched her eyebrow in a challenge.  


Harry shook his head furiously. “You’re the smartest person I know, Hermione.”  


“And I’m still that smartest person you know, even on my knees,” she said primly.  


“And I’m still a man,” Harry mumbled, but Hermione didn’t think she was supposed to hear that. Which was just fine with her, she really didn’t want to respond to it.  


“But why do you have to kneel?” Harry almost whined.  


“What part of ritual do you not understand, Harry?”  


“Maybe I should read the book first.”  


“Harry, you don’t even read your school books! Also, we only have about an hour before everyone will expect us down for breakfast. This is the only time.”  


She adjusted her knees. Maybe she should have worn robes for this, it would have been another layer of fabric between her and the floor.  


“So, what do I do exactly?” Harry asked, resigned.  


Hermione thought back to earlier when she had reread the chapter. “The book said to reach inside yourself and find everything that makes your magic you, and then imagine pouring it out. Then, I’ll do the same.”  


“Just that simple, huh?” Harry said sarcastically.  


“Harry,” Hermione sighed, moving to get up. “If you don’t want to do this, it won’t work.”  


“No, no, no,” Harry stopped her. “I can do it, I just need a moment.”  


“Fine,” Hermione said, trying not to loose her patience. “Take as long as you need.”  


“Okay,” Harry said, softly, closing his eyes. “Okay.”  


It took a few minutes but eventually Hermione saw his hands start to mime an opening action. They started at his chest and then moved downwards to where she was waiting and suddenly she felt it.  


She jumped a little as Harry’s magic settled over her as real as physical touch, gently but firmly wrapping her into a hug. The hair on her arms stood up from the combination of the warmth of Harry’s magic, and the chills it caused.  


His magic shimmered, like white gold or platinum in the light and the fact that she could see it at all was blowing her mind. It wasn’t with her physical eyes, but something deeper.  


“Harry,” Hermione breathed, amazed it was working.  


Her eyes found his and locked, basking in the look of wonder in his eyes. She watched as he raised his hand to her face, and felt the anticipation of his touch in his magic.  


“Mione.”  


His voice low and gravely. She let her eyes fall closed as she leaned into his hand.  


“This is wrong,” Harry said, even as he stroked her cheek and for some reason she knew to ignore that sentiment. “I shouldn’t like this.”  


His magic coiled tighter around her despite his words, or perhaps in response to them.  


“Let me try something,” she opened her eyes again to see his answer. His throat bobbed before he nodded slightly.  


She let her eyes close again, looking inside herself for her magic the way the book explained. She imagined gathering it up in her hands, golden and intellectual, with a tendency to follow the rules and a dash of reckless love for her friends. For Harry. But most of all, an iron strong sense of right and wrong, and the utter belief in Harry that she hadn’t truly known existed until then.  


And she offered it to Harry.  


Above her, Harry sucked in a hissing breath as Hermione flooded him with her magic. She wondered briefly how it felt for him, but pushed aside the question for later, taking in the new feeling of emptying herself. It was strange and right at the same time.  


She continued to pour her magic into him until a balance seemed to form. Tears prickled in her eyes as all her insecurities were washed away by Harry’s acceptance of her magic. The loneliness that always sat on the prefrial of her mind disappeared entirely.  


Peace filled her as the golden light from her magic rippled slightly between the two of them, finding that perfect balance. It was in one of these rocks from her magic, that she felt her body sway slightly into the shell Harry’s magic had formed around her.  


She opened her eyes at the reminder of Harry’s physical presence, and found that at some point his other hand had joined his first, completely cupping her face in his large palms, his fingers splayed into her hair and just barely gracing her neck. His hands were rough in some places, her sensitive skin feeling the dry, coarse callouses that had formed from his summer chores. She smiled and in her next breath almost sobbed in contentment.  


His eyes were closed and a small pinch had appeared in his forehead, but Hermione knew it couldn’t be from pain or discomfort.  


She leaned leisurely into his magic and imagined a few golden strands reaching to mix with the silvery white of his own.  


His eyes opened in response and he gazed down at her. Green, so green.  


Feelings of amazement and wonder surrounded her, everything she had thought she had seen in his eyes earlier now swam in his magic. Those were Harry’s emotions, she realized.  


She reached inside herself and found the feeling she most wanted to give back to him. She found the gratefulness for his willingness to try this for her and the adoration that had been consuming her since the results had began to manifest.  


She offered them to him again, but this time she did not pour it into him, rather let it sit between them for him to take. She felt those silvery arms tentatively probe the feeling, before wrapping themselves around it and pulling it back to its core.  


“Harry,” Hermione whispered again, an instinctual feeling of joy abounding as her gift was accepted.  


“Mione,” he repeated, slowly, dragging out every syllable like he took pleasure from speaking it.  


The instinct that she had let guide her pushed her again, and not seeing any reason to stop it, she followed it forward until she was nuzzling into the outside of his thigh. The movement had forced Harry to move his hands, but they didn’t leave her for more than a second. His right hand came to completely cover the side of her face not pressed into his body and his left cupped the back of her head.  


She was completely surrounded by him. Magically and physically. It was centering and disarming at the same time. It was archaic and primitive and instinctual and she was somehow okay with it. More than okay with it. She pushed her face closer to him and felt the tightening of his magic again.  


It should have been wrong. Nothing had ever felt so right.  


She was safe and warm and loved and free. She was accepted. She was wanted. She was his.  


Hermione pulled back because she wanted to see his eyes again and his hands easily slid back to their original position.  


God, his hands.  


She reached up and grabbed one of his glorious hands. "Traditional Britannia" had a chapter dedicated to rituals that involved the care and magical influence of one’s hands. She’d have to read it later.  


She pulled the hand in front of her, examining the callouses on the inside of his palms with sorrow at the reasons they were there. The Dursley’s didn't deserve him. Similarly, the back of his hand was cracked and aching, she could almost feeling the slight pain in them and the realization of that clenched her heart like a vice.  


She lowered her head to his hand, pressing a kiss to each abused knuckle. The action bloomed a new emotion within her and she offered it to Harry as it appeared, not even waiting to understand it. It was because of him. It was his.  


It was several moments later, when she had moved on to slowly and methodically kissing the back of his hand, that she dismissively identified the emotion her magic was carrying to Harry. It was devotion.  


Hermione could tell the moment he recognized the emotion as well. All his magic shuddered once, drawing in close to her, before exploding in passion, pleasure, want.  


His magic asked for more and she gladly gave all she could, emptying herself again. The whole time kissing his hand, the hand of her lord. She needed more, more of Harry’s eagerness and approval. She wanted to feed the pleasure she felt around her, that burned and caused every instinct in her to sing.  


She needed him to understand, she needed him to see. She poured more and more of devotion-adoration-into him until kissing his hand was no longer enough. Kneeling at his feet wasn’t enough.  


She needed to think, to find another way to show him how strong she thought he was. He would never let anything happen to her, never had, never would. Not when she was here, at his feet, the feet of her lord. He would protect her and she would respect him, honor him, love him. Love him always.  


His magic melded with hers and she felt the raw power rebounding inside of Harry. It was incredible. It was hers. As she was his, he was hers, in everything.  


“Harry!” she cried, body collapsing forward beneath the weight of their combined magic. The hard wood flooring was cool against the heat of her cheek.  


She whimpered, not able to think of anything other than ‘more’ in her state.  


“I’m sorry,” she said, tears breaking free.  


She couldn’t think of another way to show him how prefect and strong and beautiful and prefect he was. His magic was asking for more, sucking in her adoration for him faster than she could give it. So she needed another way to show him, but she couldn’t think!  


“I’m sorry,” she repeated, nearly weeping in her failure.  


“Mione, no!” Harry said, kneeling down in front of her immediately.  


“No,” she gasped, nearly shoving him back, trying to get him to stand back up. What if this broke the connection? This couldn’t end! She had never felt anything more . . . more anything! Not in her entire life. She could show him, she could give him what he wanted!  


She needed to think! If she could think then she could show him, and he would understand. He would understand he had to stand back up!  


Harry ignored her, his strength easily overpowering her drunken attempts to push him back. He gathered her in his arms and stood swifty. She was weightless and desperate for something she could not put into words. Instead she threw her arms around him, pressing her face into his neck. Apologizing again and again.  


Harry was moving, but Hermione’s world barely consisted of anything other than the surmounting need to please him.  


He was carrying her. He was so stong, she needed to show him. She couldn’t reach his hands, so she started kissing the only skin available to her in that moment. His neck burned hotter than his hands and she enjoyed the feel of it against her lips.  


Harry let out a deep groan, his chest rumbling against her. She liked it.  


“More,” she pleaded. “Harry, more.”  


“I’m right here, Mione,” he said. Suddenly he sat, and she panicked for a moment thinking he would let her go, but he actually managed to hold her closer. He kept her cocooned in his arms, not even letting her legs drop to the couch.  


Hermione went back to kissing all the flesh in her reach, this now included up the center of his throat and under his chin. He seemed to like it when her tongue followed that path as well. “Strong, perfect, love you!”  


His chest rumbled again. “I love you too, Hermione. You were perfect, absolutely perfect.”  


His magic was wrapping around her strand by strand, each brought a new, comforting emotion from him. Her lord was good at this. He was perfect too. Perfect just like her.  


“Give you more, Harry. Everything. Yours!” she whimpered, giving up trying to think in full thoughts.  


“Yes, Mione. Yours and mine, our magic.” Harry flexed his magic around her again, letting her feel it pulsing a calming level of reassurance and satisfaction. “Do you feel it, Mione? Our magic? Do you feel how happy you’ve made me?”  


It was that question that cut through the mindless haze of need and fractured thought.  


“Happy?” she whispered. “Full?”  


“That’s right,” Harry cooed, leaning down to kiss her brow. “Full of our magic. Do you feel it?”  


Hermione closed her eyes, reaching out to better feel their combined magic. It was perfect. A perfect blend of yellow and white as bright as the sun. She felt Harry moving within the strands of their magic, and yet the magic was also him, and so was the body holding her.  


“Harry,” she sighed.  


“Yes, love,” he said. “I’m right here, that’s it.”  


She slowly calmed, feeling his hand play gently with her curls the way his magic played with hers. He braided and weaved long lines of yellow and white rope, tying them together and wrapping them around themselves. Tighter and tighter, round and round, until her head rested peacefully against his heart and her hand drew soft designs on the other side of his chest.  


Slowly, Harry unwound the careful ropes he had so artfully weaved and Hermione let the methodic action lull her further into a place that was just her and Harry.  


Several minutes later, Harry spoke, “That was . . .”  


“Intense,” Hermione finished, coming out of the land of bliss and peace.  


“Yeah,” Harry agreed, letting out a shaking breath. “Bloody hell, Mione.”  


He nuzzled the crown of her head.  


“I’m sorry I freaked out,” Hermione said, smally.  


“No, no, Mione, you were perfect. So damn perfect.”  


Harry threaded the corners of his magic into hers again and the oversensitivity of her magic caused several chills to run through her body.  


Harry gave a small chuckle over her reaction, it was deep and sexual and it nearly caused her to shiver again. It did invoke a dark blush though and Hermione ducked her head to cover it.  


Harry made a displeased sound, jostling his shoulder to force her out again.  


“Don’t hide from me,” Harry said. “Not after this.”  


Hermione couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes, but succeeded in not hiding again.  


“Okay,” she said. “No secrets.”  


Harry tilted her chin up with a single finger, confidently leading her eyes to his.  


“I’d like that,” he said.  


“I like your hands,” Hermione whispered without thinking, basking in the sure touch of his finger.  


Harry’s eyes danced. “I noticed.”  


Her blush came back with a vengeance and Harry moved his finger away, waiting to see what she would do. She held his eyes, though it took just about all the stubbornness in her to do.  


“Good girl,” Harry all but purred.  


She felt her eyes grow wide and warmth flooded her stomach. She shifted in his lap, reminding herself that she was in fact on his lap.  


“Harry Potter!” she cried, indignantly. “I am not a dog.”  


Harry just smirked, and she couldn’t for the life of her understand where this confidence had come from. He started to lean in closer so she brought her forearm up and braced it against his chest. If anything, that just caused his smirk to broaden. His hands came up to rest on her hips.  


“Well,” he said, drawing small circles where his thumbs rested. “I certainly know that.”  


Hermione glared at the boy, but it melted away in her contentment too easily. She leaned back into his chest. It wasn’t quiet broad, but Harry had grown over the summer, and Hermione knew the power that resided there wasn’t just physical.  


After a moment, Hermione asked, “Do you think it will always be like that?”  


“Hmm?” Harry hummed.  


“The, the kneeling,” Hermione gathered the courage to say, and it didn’t count as hiding if she was already pressed into his chest.  


Harry chuckled a little, “Eager to do it again, Mione?”  


She knew it was more of a tease than an actual question, but she still answered bluntly, “Yes.”  


Harry leaned back to look at her, a little shocked.  


“Well, not right now, obviously,” Hermione said, exasperated. “But, Harry, I’ve never felt anything like that.”  


“Me either,” Harry said, when he realized she was waiting for his response.  


“But you liked it, right?” Hermione asked, even though she wasn’t even sure she needed the reassurance. She had felt his emotions in the moment. She knew he liked it, and that felt amazing.  


A part of her still expected her friends to realize she was too bosy, too much of a teacher’s pet, too concerned with her grades to want to be around anymore. For the first time, she didn’t have that small voice telling her that she better make herself useful or they’d get bored of her, or send her away. She knew Harry wouldn’t do that, not after this morning. She had felt him so completely, and he had accepted her so fully, she might never feel that way again. What a wonderful feeling.  


“Hermione, I,” Harry laughed. “I feel rested. I haven’t felt like this in years. Since before Voldemort.”  


She jerked slightly, and he quickly apologized. That caused her to think for a moment, he had never apologized for using His name before.  


“I feel happy, Hermione. Truly and utterly happy.”  


He pressed his lips to her forehead in benediction.  


“Harry,” Hermione said slowly, reminding herself she was a Gryffendor. “What we said earlier . . . about love . . . what did you mean?”  


Harry’s green eyes softened even more in a look that made her feel like the most precious thing in the world.  


“You’re my best friend, Hermione. You’ve been for years, and I’ve loved you since. I think it might be time to try another kind of love. The kind my parents felt. The kind that lets me hold you like this, because, Mione,” he let out a small laugh. “I don’t ever want to let go.”  


She smiled, heart alight, and for the first time, cupped his face as he had been doing the whole morning.  


“I’d like that,” Hermione said.  


“I like your hands,” Harry teased back.  


They laughed together, and it was amazing. Hermione leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss to his cheek, and then nuzzled against it with a hum.  


“Its probably time to head down for breakfast,” she said, pulling back. “Before Mrs. Weasley sends the twins to come find us.”  


Harry protested, using his hands to center her as he placed his own head into her neck. “I haven’t gotten a turn yet.”  


Hermione ignored the feelings that started to grow again at the next new sensation. “Harry,” she complained.  


“Two minutes.”  


She rolled her eyes, but agreed, threading her fingers into his hair. In the next two minutes, she found she really like his hair as well.  


When they finally joined everyone downstairs, breakfast was just starting. They quickly grabbed plates as Molly took the tea platter from Harry - who had insisted on carrying it down. Chivalry was not dead, Hermione supposed, it just took a three hundred year old ritual to resurrect it.  


In fact, Harry kept an eye out for anything he could do for her the entire meal. Whether that was letting her choose which seat she wanted first, or passing her the orange juice before she could ask. He even brought her into the conversation multiple times, when Ron unintentionally led it to Quidditch or some other topic Hermione had nothing to say on.  


Eventually, Hermione gently touched Harry’s elbow to stop him from directing the next question at her, and pointedly turned to talk with the twins. She felt his magic brush across hers double checking if she was content with the situation, she sent back such a tide of warmth and love she saw his hands tremble.  


“Harry,” Sirius greeted in a surprised tone as he wandered into the kitchen. “You look well, really well.”  


Harry smiled around his fork, care free and beautiful.  


“Mione and I had some tea this morning,” he answered before going back to his conversation with Ron.  


Hermione fought the blush trying to break free at that admission, especially when Sirius’s eyes momentarily slid over to look at her.  


Not finding any answers with her, Sirius stared after his godson, and Hermione couldn’t fault him. This Harry that was smiling and joking with Ron over sausage and eggs was not the same boy who had come to Grimmauld Place yesterday. Or even the one that had sulked around the house this morning.  


That instinct deep inside her, the one she was starting to think was her magic itself, grew warm and pleased that she was the cause of such a change in her lord.  


Her lord - that was another thing she would have to look more into.  


The words had appeared in her mind and she had known they were true. Maybe it had something to do with that passage on noble houses. Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, Lord of the Most Noble House of Potter-Sayre.  


Hermione would ask Sirius for a more thorough tour of the library after breakfast.


End file.
